


Tony Stark, Tattoo Artist

by Woman_of_Letters



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Avengers Family, BAMF Natasha Romanov, But Bucky is here, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Deaf Clint Barton, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Humor, I love all of these characters so much, It might get shippy i dont know, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Science Bros, Snapshots of Tony's tattoos, Tattooed Tony Stark, Tattoos, Team Bonding, Team Dynamics, Teams reactions, Tony Has Tattoos, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony learns to trust people, Tony-centric, and everything is fine, civil war didn't happen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-03 14:11:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13342902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woman_of_Letters/pseuds/Woman_of_Letters
Summary: It really shouldn't come as a surprise.Tony was not known for his impulse control. Obviously, he can draw, I mean he's no DaVinci, but he's been sketching up designs since he was three. Mostly, Tony, at his core, has the temperament of an artist.So why did everyone react with varying degrees of shock?~Or, Tony has tattoos and nobody knows what to do





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this instead of doing Homework.  
> Mostly fluffy and fun, ignoring Age of Ultron and all that happened afterward, basically. Bucky has been recovered and everything is fine, Peter is just being your friendly neighborhood SpiderMan, and I just really wanted to write Tony with tattoos.  
> This is what happened  
> UnBetaed

It really shouldn't come as a surprise. 

Tony was not known for his impulse control. Obviously, he can draw, I mean he's no DaVinci, but he's been sketching up designs since he was three. Mostly, Tony, at his core, has the temperament of an artist.

So why did everyone react with varying degrees of shock?

~

Tony got his first when he was 16. Yes, it might have been illegal, but he always had been a bit of a rebel. Anyways, he was a year into college and had wandered into this random tattoo shop, paying an outrageous amount for them to forget his name and his age and give him a tattoo. Then he realized he didn't actually have a design in mind, flying off the cuff as he had been. The guy working the front desk had laughed.

Okay, so maybe Tony had been a bit out of it. Jarvis had died a week and a half before. Heart attack, he was told. He wasn't even invited to the funeral. Ana, Jarvis's beautiful wife, had left this world 2 years before.  
Tony had been living this past week and a half in some half-dazed stupor.

Right, tattoos. He closed his eyes and thought back to when he was 14. They had had a picnic in the spring for his Birthday, in a beautiful field of flowers. Ana's laughter had rung clear as a bell, one of the last times she was fully present before her illness started wearing at her, before the lines started etching themselves more firmly in his beloved butler's face. There was apple pie and bright sunlight and it was beautiful.

So he had the tattoo artist draw up twin designs for his ankles. In thin lines and bright watercolors, a bright yellow sunflower and red poppy mirrored each other.

Sunflowers for Ana's Joy. Poppies for Jarvis's remembrance. 

A tear streaked down Tony's cheek when he saw them, and he thanked the artist. That night, he finally allowed himself to cry, to feel. It was the beginning of healing. 

~

Tony did not anticipate how quickly he would fall in love with tattoos. They bridged that ever-present divide between mind and body, allowing him to choose what his body would represent, to claim it as his own.

He busied himself sketching up hundreds of potential designs, imagining them on his skin. The double-edged sword: limited canvas space. Whatever he put on his body, he had to make sure was worth it. Was important. 

His next few came near graduation. Rhodey, his Rhodey, was leaving him for the airforce. Tony did not begrudge him this, but he knew he would miss him. 

So, spur of the moment, Tony suggested they go get tattoos together. The surprise that crossed Rhodey's face was comical, but he agreed after only slight hesitation. 

The crested emblem of an eagle sat on his hip, reminding him always of Rhodey's steadfastness, his purpose. 

Afterwards, Rhodey had given him a tight hug, thanking him in a gruff voice.

"I'm gonna miss you, Tones."

"Aww, you say the sweetest things, honeybear."

The slight wavering of Tony's chin betrayed him. 

~

The car crash came soon after, taking both of his parents with it. Three weeks were spent drunk, enraged, grieving. 

His mother had taught him piano.

He found himself in his father's study, smashing his fist into walls, throwing a vase across the room, kicking the huge wooden desk until he broke two of his toes. 

She used to place her hands over his, guiding them along the keys. 

His hatred for his father burned like an ember in his chest. He took from Tony, took and took and took with his fists and his words and his drinking and his expectations and his judgment and his disdain and his stupid fucking car accidents that took his mother.

Not a single tear he shed was for Howard, no they were for her, all for her.

The next day, complicated lines of sheet music covered his right side, an ever present melody of an Itallian lullaby. 

Sometimes, when he played it, he thought he could feel his mother's smile.

~

Afghanistan felt like he was constantly burning. At night it got so cold, and he only burned hotter.   
He was combusting from inside, disintegrating, falling apart falling to dust.

Those soldiers died. Yinsen died. They all died. He wasn't enough.

Rhodey caught him in his arms, and Tony crumbled like ash. Maybe he was ash. Maybe he was dead, just a walking corpse. He felt like it. 

Iron Man made him feel alive. He flew, and he laughed. 

Obie's betrayal was another spark, another burn, another fire. 

It hurt.

After it was all over, after he and Pepper had killed the traitor, Tony spent hours drawing. 

Spent so long trying to figure out how he felt, how he wanted his body to portray him. 

And a soaring phoenix rose from the ashes across his back.

~

Tony was an artist. His mind always had to be occupied. Even as a child, he scribbled out bad poetry, doodled designs in the margins of papers, picked up musical refrains as easy as breathing. 

Many tattoos followed.   
A bright blue cuff circled his wrist with wires crawling up his right forearm. Binary code weaved in and out of the wires, spiraling around his arm, spelling out the secrets of his creations, of Jarvis, of his beloved bots.  
A hyper-realistic thestral (yes from Harry Potter he was a nerd and unashamed) flew up one calf, a dragon soaring on the other.   
His entire left arm, shoulder to wrist, displayed a sleeve themed to show the 7 deadly sins battling the Fruits of the Spirit. And no, he wasn't religious, but he could appreciate the symbolism.   
An angel carved from stone sat on his thigh, because while God didn't exist, surely angels did. His mom was one now, sitting up there and watching him and the angel shared the same gentle face and full lips that Maria Stark once had.  
Some had little meaning, like the Medusa head on his other thigh or the music note behind his ear.   
Some had too much, like the small Avengers symbols down his ribs, opposite his mother's sheet music.

Tony had hesitated over those, unsure whether to let them in his life or not. But they were living in his home, bring him into their team, and he found himself growing attached despite his best intentions. 

~

His collection was ever growing, his story spread out across his skin for anyone to read, if they were able to translate it. 

Only those closest to him knew of his tattoos-Pepper had seen them a handful of times, and of course, Rhodey had gotten several with him. He kept them carefully hidden from all others, hanging onto this extremely private part of himself, on display for all to see. Makeup and long sleeves were his friends.

Still, at times, Tony longed to share them with others. Not the whole world, but maybe the Avengers could be trusted.

Time would tell.


	2. Black Widow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we have Natasha's reactions to Tony's tattoos!  
> BTW a lot of this is based entirely on my headcannons surrounding Natasha's backstory, not on any facts confirmed by marvel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back, by popular request! (seriously, I am overwhelmed by the support received from this piece.)  
> Here we have the first of the Avengers discovering and reacting to Tony's tattoos.  
> Remember to subscribe or bookmark so you don't miss future updates, and comments make me write faster :)  
> Once again, this is unbetaed, so I apologize for any mistakes.

It should come as no surprise that Natasha was the first to discover Iron Man's secret. 

Even during her time posing as Natalie Rushman, she noticed something was off.

Tony Stark always wore long sleeves. The only time she saw him in a t-shirt--AC/DC logo included--he wore a hoodie over it. All this information was filed away but didn't catch her attention until she saw the smudge of concealer on his cuff. 

Black Widows are observant, unobtrusive. She watched, and she determined that Stark was indeed hiding something. She also determined that it wasn't a bad something, like the palladium was a bad something. It was just a deeply personal something. 

Natasha learned this by watching his mannerisms. He did not shy away from people touching his arms, from movements that could reveal more. So it wasn't a bad something, just a something he'd rather keep private. 

For a man of Stark's stature and power, it didn't surprise her that he kept secrets. 

She let it slide, not bothering to include it in her report. She could be discreet, she could value other's privacy. 

She also had more important things to deal with at the time.

~

New York. Rubble and explosions and Stark flying into space with a nuke on his back. Perhaps she underestimated him. 

Shwarma afterward. Hefty food, making them more tired than they already were. Natasha thought of the standard issue SHEILD bunk waiting for her, of the firm pillow, so much better than the barracks she was raised in. She fought to keep composure, to stop from yawning or letting her eyes flutter closed.

Her team wasn't faring much better, she noticed. They all needed sleep soon. She winced at the journey ahead of her to get back to headquarters. She couldn't get a cab. Clint and Rogers wouldn't be better off, and God knows where Banner would sleep.

Natasha wasn't the only one who noticed. In a flurry of distraction and sleep deprived rambling, they all found themselves back at Stark Tower. 

Stark hid things, she thought dimly as she was shown to her room. He hid anything that would make him seem human. Fallible. Sentimental.

There was something important in that revelation, but she didn't have time to analyze it, for her eyes closed the instant her head hit the pillow. 

~

Overnight, it seemed, Stark had moved them into his tower. Her meager possessions were in a closet, her weapons on a heap on the table. 

Natasha's immediate reaction was to be suspicious. Nothing is given freely, what was Stark's endgame? What was he aiming for? What did he want from her? If Stark thought Natasha could be played like a puppet, he was wrong. She had left that life behind. 

Stark confused her; he didn't seem to want anything in return. In fact, when Banner and Rogers tried to thank him, he grew flustered, waved them off with a quick 'Perks of being a billionaire, don't thank me, it's nothing,' and made a hasty retreat to his workshop. 

Moreover, when Natasha hunted him down to see what he wanted, he had looked at her like she was insane. 

"I just feel bad, you doing all this for us. Is there anything I could do for you?"

"What? Widow, I didn't do shit for any of you."

Now Natasha was puzzled. "You opened your home to us, inviting us into your space even though you have no reason to trust us, me especially. You feed us. Clint found a new quiver of arrows yesterday, and you're fooling nobody with the note that they're from SHEILD. SHEILD's tech isn't that good."

He looked slightly pleased by the praise (as if he wasn't used to it) but he also looked terrified by the sincerity she purposefully blended into her voice. "Well...I'm glad he likes them, anyways. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a test to run-Fury wants me to upgrade the helicarrier-very busy, you see...I'll be in the workshop."

He managed to escape without actually responding to what she said, Natasha observed with amusement. Perhaps there actually wasn't a motive behind his gifts beyond pure philanthropy. 

~

A week later, the voice in the ceiling led her to a floor all of her own-a beautiful dance studio with wall to wall mirrors, bars, a changing room with at least 20 perfect workout and dance outfits, and a speaker system that could play any music she asked. 

Taken aback, she smiled and asked Jarvis to put on the Russian ballet Giselle, before grabbing a pair of pointe shoes and dancing to her heart's content. 

~

When she came back to her room 6 hours later, she found it remodeled to her tastes, with secret caches of weapons hidden around the room, opened by biometric locks. 

~

Natasha had not forgotten Tony's secret, but she also didn't pay much mind to it. After all he had done for her, she figured she could show him some respect for his privacy. It also had the benefit of a step towards earning his trust back. 

She was called down to his lab one day to try out a new knife he had designed. When she arrived, he was wearing a jacket over a t-shirt and jeans, smeared with grease. The jacket was clean, ergo he had pulled it on just before her arrival. He was hiding his arms from her. 

He handed her the knife, and she had fun testing it. Similar in design to a butterfly knife, it was impossibly light and well balanced, even suitable for throwing. The best part, in Natasha's opinion, was the switch on the side, which instantly turned the blade cold enough to freeze blood in the veins. Instant death to anyone she cut.

"This is amazing," she breathed, turning to him after playing with it for half an hour. "How does this work?"

Tony immediately launched into an in-depth explanation, filled with more technobabble than even Bruce could follow, probably. Her mind drifted slightly as she listened. He used his hands when he talked, betraying his Itallian heritage. She watched as his hands flew through the air, illustrating his point, and his sleeve slipped down just enough to reveal...

"You have tattoos!" she blurted, after a moment's indecision. 

Tony cut off his rant abruptly, leaving her worried that she had made the wrong choice. An air of surprise, of discovery, had seemed the best choice for answers, but also ran the highest risk. They had to trust each other.

"Yes," he said, rubbing at the back of his neck sheepishly. "Sorry, it's just...not many people have seen them."

"You don't have to show me," she was quick to assure him, and was surprised to find she meant it. Sure, she was curious, but she'd rather Tony trust her than force him into revealing something extremely personal.

"No...it's alright," he sounded slightly hesitant, but Natasha jumped on the chance, reaching out to brush his wrist, where the slight darkness she had noticed lay. He shuddered slightly, stripping off his outer jacket to reveal his arms. 

Natasha sucked in a quick breath to demonstrate shock. The ink wound up his forearms, disappearing into the sleeves of his shirt. He tugged said shirt over his head, revealing far more expansive tattoos than she had imagined. Burnt red and gold feathers curled over his shoulder, disappearing to his back. Thin lines--was that sheet music?-- wrapped his ribs, a crest sitting on one hip. Lines of numbers circled one of his forearms, signifying something she couldn't decode, while his other displayed a great battle scene. And on his other side, perched high, near the bottom of his chest...

Natasha's breath caught, not shocked by the arc reactor, but by what sat to the right of it, at the very top of his ribs. The Avengers, displayed with the symbols the modern media had taken to using. Her black and red Hourglass was there, tucked in between Thor's Hammer and Clint's target with arrow. 

Tony cleared his throat, apparently embarrassed. Natasha deduced that he was not comfortable showing off deeply personal parts of himself. "I have more on my legs, but I think all this staring and appreciation for my ink is just a ruse to get me out of my pants, Widow, and I would not grant you the pleasure."

Natasha laughed lightly, aware that she was treading on thin ground. Tony had, in esscence, opened his soul to her, however briefly. One wrong move, and he would close it forever. She was pleasantly surprised that he even trusted her this much.

'Trust goes both ways,' a traitorous voice whispered in her head. 

With that in mind, she toed off one of her sneakers and sat on the worn-down couch he kept in the workshop. "It's dangerous for agents to have tattoos," she stated, cutting off his inevitable questions. Her mind echoed what he was probably thinking--What the hell was she doing? Nevertheless, she persisted. "Any identifiable markings can give us away. Which is why I only have one." 

Natasha could feel, more than see, the moment his curiosity got the best of him. He ambled over to the couch, plopped down next to her, and motioned for her to continue. 

She grabbed her ankle, pulling to rest it on her knee, and pointed to the bottom of her heel. Tony squinted, leaning closer to see the red ink. 

#749 

His eyes widened, flickering up to meet hers, the question clear in them. 

Natasha took a deep breath, reminding herself that he had just opened himself up. Now it was her turn. 

"The organization that raised me was not a kind one. We called it the Red Room, mostly because we had nothing else to call it. They trained us, programmed us, made us into weapons. I was their star pupil. Later I took those things, took their mantle of 'Widow,' and I made it my own. But things like that leave their marks," she chuckled without humor. "Number Seven-Four-Nine. That's what I was to them. Not anymore."

When she met Tony's eyes again, they were hard. "Fuck them, 'Tasha." 

She smiled, deadly and terrifying. "I intend to." 

~

"Mr. Stark requests your presence in the garage." 

Natasha looked to the nearest camera. "Did he say why, Jarvis?"

"I believe Sir meant it to be a surprise. You may wish to hurry, Sir appears to be growing impatient."

Bemused, Natasha grabbed her jacket and walked out the door. "Well, we wouldn't want that."

When she arrived, Tony swept open the door to a Black Lamborgini, ushering her inside with a wink. He followed suit, sliding into the driver's seat, and refusing to answer her questions. With a fond roll of her eyes, she decided to humor him. 

Then again, humoring Tony Stark could very well end in disaster, she mused as they pulled up outside the tattoo studio. 

They clambered out, and she shot him a glare over the hood, but he either didn't see, or ignored it. 

The artist greeted him excitedly, obviously knowing Tony well. He grinned, speaking German. 

"My friend and I are looking to get tattoos done." 

"Wonderful! Do you know what type of tattoo she would like?"

Natasha broke into the conversation. "I'm not quite sure myself, this was a bit unplanned."

The man grinned widely at her. "Ah! You speak German! How refreshing." 

"If you don't mind, I'm going to grab Tony real quick; we will be right back."

He nodded, and Natasha pulled Tony to the side, reverting to English. "What's this about, Tony?"

"Okay, I know this was a little abrupt..." She raised one eyebrow and he held up his hands. "Sue me. You don't have to get one, obviously, but I just thought you'd like something you picked for yourself on your body, and I'm getting something done, so..." he trailed off with a shrug. "I don't know, I just thought it would be a good idea. I even drew up some designs for you, you don't need to use them, of course, but they might give you a good starting place. Maybe this was a terrible idea, I'm sorry, we can just go--"

Natasha cut off what was quickly spiraling into insecure ramblings. "Show me your designs, Tony."

"Oh, sure," he fumbled with the briefcase he carried. Both eyebrows climbed high, as she had thought it was his armor. "Here you go."

She shifted through the seven (Seven?!) sheets of paper he handed her, settling on the one that caught her eye. With horror, Natasha realized she could feel the tell-tale pressure of tears building, and she quickly blinked back against them. 

"This one," she decided instantly. 

"Are you sure? Again, you don't have to--" Tony's protests were silenced with a look from her. She stared back at the drawing.

It was her, or at least, it appeared to be. Sketchy-styled lines showed the silhouette of a ballerina mid-dance, beautiful watercolors bringing her to life. Was this how Tony saw her? Moved by a sudden surge of emotion, she hugged him.

"Woah, okay, hugging is happening. You're welcome, I guess. Holy crap, you're hugging me without killing me this is fantastic, Barton will never believe it..."

Natasha laughed, pulling back. "Tony?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up." 

"Right, shutting up."

She marched back over to the artist, showing him the sketch and saying that she wanted it on her ribs, where it was less visible. Soon, she and Tony lay next to each other on tattoo chairs, another artist working on him. 

Her artist complimented her several times on sitting so stoically, saying the ribs were one of the most painful places and most people weren't able to sit so well. She just smiled in response, unsure of how to explain that she had withstood torture on many an occasion, so the poke of a needle was next to nothing. 

When she was done, Natasha looked in the mirror, overjoyed to see her danced embodied forever on her side. Underneath, delicate letters spelled out "Мое прошлое - мое" or "My past is my own" in her native language. 

She beamed over towards Tony, who had finished his a while before. He grinned back, apparently pleased that his plan had gone over so smoothly. 

"Well?" she asked. "Let me see yours!"

That hesitation was back, but he turned and pulled the waist of his jeans down slightly. Natasha couldn't stifle a gasp.

There, sitting on his hip, was a hyper-realistic Black Widow spider, so well drawn that it looked like she could reach out and touch it. 

For the second time in the day, Natasha pulled him into a fierce hug. This time, instead of stammering and talking his way around it, he hugged her back. 

"Thank you, Tony," she whispered. 

"You're welcome."

~

When they walked into the common room at the tower, they were both laughing at a joke Tony had just told. Clint, Steve, and Bruce were all sitting on the couch, apparently in the process of introducing Steve to Lord of the Rings. 

"When did you become best friends?" Clint asked, mocking offense at being replaced. 

Natasha grinned, catching Tony's eye. "Today," she answered simply.

He smiled back, before turning his attention to the screen. "Ooh! Is this the Two Towers? Has Legolas surfed down the stairs yet?"

Clint answered with equal childish animation, and the pair took their seats.

Natasha swung her feet up to rest on Tony's lap, and his hand subconsciously landed on her ankle as he and Clint started arguing about who was better-Legolas or Aragorn. 

Natasha smiled, her fingertips brushing the plastic wrap that covered her dancer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!  
> If you want to get to know me on social media (Or message me to rant about Marvel) feel free to follow and contact me!  
> tumblr: warping-reality.tumblr.com  
> Instagram: helloimshiloh

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is entirely for Tony. In the next chapter, we get the team!
> 
> Also, I live on comments, kudos, and coffee. They make me write faster


End file.
